“Oh yes!  I’d know the house well enough, if I saw it.  It’s the fust house this side o’ Lowry’s.”

“With a big pole in front of it?” asked the driver.

“Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it.”

“An’ a long porch?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! well!” said the driver, settling himself in his seat.  “I know all about that house.  That’s a empty house.  I didn’t think you meant that house.  There’s nobody lives there.  An’ yit, now I come to remember, I have seen people about, too.  I tell ye what ye better do.  Since ye’re so set on staying on this side the ridge, ye better let me put ye down at Dan Carson’s place.  That’s jist about quarter of a mile from where Dutton used to live.  Dan’s wife can tell ye all about the Duttons, an’ about everybody else, too, in this part o’ the country, and if there aint nobody livin’ at the old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson’s, and I’ll stop an’ take you back, to-morrow, when I come along.”

We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done, and, late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk—­for we were traveling under light weight—­at Dan Carson’s door.  The stage was rather behind time, and the driver whipped up and left us to settle our own affairs.  He called back, however, that he would keep a good look-out for us to-morrow.

Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and, very naturally, was somewhat surprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her little porch.  She was a plain, coarsely dressed woman, with an apron full of chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail, as we soon discovered.

“Jist so,” she said, putting down the chips and inviting us to seats on a bench.  “Dave Dutton’s folks is all moved away.  Dave has a good farm on the other side o’ the mountain, an’ it never did pay him to keep that tavern, ’specially as he didn’t sell liquor.  When he went away, his son Al come there to live with his wife, an’ the old man left a good deal o’ furniture and things for him, but Al’s wife aint satisfied here, and, though they’ve been here, off an’ on, the house is shet up most o’ the time.  It’s for sale an’ to rent, both, ef enybody wants it.  I’m sorry about you, too, fur it was a nice tavern, when Dave kept it.”

We admitted that we were also very sorry, and the kind-hearted woman showed a great deal of sympathy.

“You might stay here, but we haint got no fit room where you two could sleep.”

At this, Euphemia and I looked very blank.

“But you could go up to the house and stay, jist as well as not,” Mrs. Carson continued.  “There’s plenty o’ things there, an’ I keep the key.  For the matter o’ that, ye might take the house for as long as ye want to stay; Dave ’d be glad enough to rent it; and, if the lady knows how to keep house, it wouldn’t be no trouble at all, jist for you two.  We could let ye have all the victuals ye’d want, cheap, and there’s plenty o’ wood there, cut, and every thing handy.”